The dripping heat of Bhustan hung on them like a stinking towel from a diseased bathhouse. The slayers swatted bloodsucking flies or pulled leeches that dropped from putrid trees. The jungle demanded a blood debt and the captain of these slayers, a man known as Kold, would see it paid.

Removing his slouch hat, sweat streamed from Kold’s shaven head, and dripped from his goatee. Massive and strong as a bear, he signaled the men for a brief halt at a crossroads. They had entered Bhustan swift and hidden like venomous spiders, but Kold still watched their back trail. If discovered, they could expect a prolonged skin-peeling death.

Verdant greenery draped everything but the sky overhead. The call of paradisiacal birds and swarming insects stung the air. A scent of damp rot wormed into Kold’s nostrils and he cursed, noticing rust attacking his blades again. He was a city man and these were hazards only dreamt of in the north.

Alien and hostile as this realm was, Duke Larkspur’s promise of reward was too great to deny. The Duke cloaked the mission in patriotism, but power and gold was the true calling. All twelve of Kold’s slayers accepted the assignment with grim determination, they knew the score. A thirteenth soul, bound and gagged, was forced along.

The prisoner, a bald dusky-skinned priest, motioned for water.

Kold signaled a halt then yanked the gag demanding, “Which way to the temple?” before offering the cured bladder.

Gulping, the old priest pointed and said, “This path is death. You seek blasphemy.”

“I’ll risk your blasphemy,” said Kold.

“You think slaying the god will stop my people?

Kold wiped his sweaty brow and snorted, “I do.”

The dusky priest looked skyward crying, “He speaks. His will cannot be silenced. Always he speaks.”

Replacing the gag, Kold then made the gesture to renew the march.

Newly fallen trees made for a tight passage down the trail. Kold noticed he no longer heard the cry of birds. He halted the men. Several nocked arrows as others drew swords. Silence mocked their preparations.

Kold narrowed his gaze at the impenetrable forest. The loud buzz of an invisible fly passed by him.

A slayer facing Kold, paled as his face went slack, letting drool run. Twisting, he fell, revealing tiny darts piercing his exposed neck. Then another man dropped and another.

Ducking amongst fallen logs, Kold drew his sword and tomahawk.

The dreaded hiss and thwack of a dart stuck and vibrated beside Kold’s face. “We gotta move,” he shouted to his men. “Throw down!”

For a mad moment, the slayers loosed everything within reach at their unseen foes, before dashing down the trail. Thrown chaotically, arrows and stones bought precious seconds, the darts paused and seven men survived the ambush.

A high pitched chorus rolled out wrathful and untamed.

Looking back Kold saw them, cannibalistic pygmies, armed with blowguns and copper knives. The tiny men swarmed through the underbrush, their painted faces a mask of hate. Almost naked, they would be vulnerable to the larger men’s swords.

The slayers fled several hundred yards before Kold realized he no longer had the priest. It didn’t matter now, believing he was on the trail to the ruined temple of the Monkey God, he urged his men on.

The pygmies knew the jungle better than Kold and his slayers, twice he was cut off and reversed course through the reaching vines and fronds. The whoosh and buzz of the darts stuck in trees beside him and the fear of poison was almost as bad as the prospect of being eaten.

Finding the trail again, Kold hoped he and his men could outrun their diminutive foes, but as they raced down the snaking path, the high-pitched cries endured. He lost three more men to the darts. Rounding a wide bend, his men halted.

A rickety rope bridge spanned a deep canyon. Across lay a complex of temples encroaching upon the jungle. Below a murky green river replete with crocodiles cut through the red-brown clay.

Looking down one of the slayers, poked at the decayed wooden planks. “Here?”

“There’s what we came for,” said Kold.

A slayer grimaced, “So what? We won’t make it out alive.”

“Get across that bridge or I’ll break your neck.”

The savage cry of the pygmies drew nearer. They would be upon him and his men in mere moments. The threat of darts in their backs was too real. He had a dangerous plan.

The slayers gingerly trotted across the bridge as Kold slashed at the support lines until they hung on only by threads.

“Hold on you sons o’ whores,” he cried, as he made the final cut.

A throng of pygmies came around the bend screaming as Kold’s knife freed the bridge and he was swept down and away.

The other slayers braced as the bridge slammed against the canyons merciless face. One lost his grip and fell to the river below. His cries grew louder, then were silenced as the reptiles below took him under for a death roll.

Undaunted at losing his sword, Kold climbed the bridge snapping every other plank on the climb. The last two slayers above him were almost to the top when they too cried out.

The pygmies on the far side cheered, but Kold could not tell why.

The rope bridge shook and throttled. A head sized stone whipped past Kold as another glanced his shoulder. “Careful up there!”

The foremost slayer fell, bloodied, almost hitting Kold on the way down.

Scanning upward, Kold saw a score of monkeys casting stones at the last slayer and soon enough at himself. The last slayer was brained and fell directly at Kold.

Swiftly kicking off the cliff, Kold narrowly avoided being hit by his own man and then a barrage of stones. He pushed himself sideways dodging the stones, but the monkeys never let up. There was no chance of climbing up with these missiles coming, they would hit him eventually.

The old priest now standing with the pygmies called to Kold, “I told you this was the path of death! You’ll not survive your blasphemy. Prepare for your deserved end! To become crocodile dung!”

Below the wicked crocodiles smiled, feasting upon his men; above monkeys of a dozen varieties tossed stones gibbering and shrieking.

He made the choice rather than letting fate decide. There was only one way to go, down.

“You will follow me!” he shouted at the priest.

Pushing off with his legs and a grasping a dagger in each hand, Kold dropped into the murk.

Olive colored water forced into his nose and he was blind a moment before glimpsing the swift approaching death. Slim river dragons darted forward. Kold jammed a dagger in the nearest and held fast as it rolled in pain with his knife. The struggle forced the other crocs to hold back. As the beast slowed and a second closed in, Kold repeated his assault.

Something nipped at Kold’s long coat but missed his flesh. He kicked and stabbed furiously, puncturing a primitive brain. Another monster snarled and shook its open jaws at him but held back as the river current let Kold drift away.

Daring to look up through his torn and dripping slouch hat, the ruined bridge was almost out of sight. Kold hoped the priest thought he was dead. The priest would learn of Kold’s indomitable will soon enough.

Some miles downstream, the canyon walls lowered and Kold swam to shore on the temple side. It was risky, but he knew he could follow the river back, exacting his vengeance along the way. Perhaps he would force all of the monkeys into the river and let the remaining crocodiles devour whichever one was the monkey god.

As Kold worked the rust from his blades and pondered his plan of action, a long dugout canoe cruised upriver. It bore a dusky woman bound in thick hemp ropes as a dozen pygmies rowed against the current. A shaman sat in the rear, feathered headdress upon him, flitting in the breeze. The woman, likely a peasant from some unfortunate Bhustani village downriver, remained silent. While her people were his enemy, Kold couldn’t bear the thought of her being a meal for the ravenous pygmies.

Racing ahead of the canoe, Kold found a spot where a stout vine looked like it would take his weight and give the distance he wished.

The canoe drew near, as the dozen tiny men slashed their oars through the river.

Timing it as best he could, Kold swung out as the canoe passed. He landed squarely in the center, capsizing the narrow vessel, sending the occupants into the drink.

The woman with her arms still bound was face down and helpless as the caterwauling pygmies spat, seeking their own weapons to fight the big man. Kold stood only waist deep, but they could not touch bottom.

Slamming his daggers upon the diminutive swimmers, Kold reminded himself that war was about winning, not honor. It didn’t seem fair, but Kold never played fair, he played to win. Out of their element, the pygmies were swiftly dispatched and the river ran red with their blood.

Kold drug the woman from the river and placed her on the slick shoreline. Back into the river, he retrieved the dugout and hauled it to shore. He hid it among the fern fronds and undergrowth as the woman coughed, watching him. Picking her up, he cut her bonds, admiring that through all of this she had never screamed or cried out. She wasn’t drugged or in shock, just accepting of her fate.

Beautiful in her own way, she lacked the sensuous allure of women back home in Tolburn, but Kold couldn’t deny a certain grace and dignity she held. Her dark hair and piercing eyes held a warmth and vitality rarely found in the bordello’s of Tolburn. Her silken gown was modest and she wore no jewelry save a tiny ruby upon her forehead.

She questioned him in an unfamiliar tongue and Kold shook his head grunting that he couldn’t understand her. She changed languages, but he still shook his head. Trying a third time, she asked, “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Name’s Kold. I needed the canoe.”

“I am Vashti. Thank you for not letting me to drown, but you have interrupted my fate,” she said plainly and without emotion.

He cocked his head, declaring, “I don’t let women die if I can help it, specially if it’s my fault.”

She nodded and wrung the river from her silken garments.

“What was your fate?” he asked.

“I am to be given to the gods of divine right, as a sacrifice. If I do not fulfill my destiny, a great doom will befall my people. Before the moon wanes, I must make it to the temple of Mahmackrah.”

Kold rubbed his jaw, “Uh-huh, where is that?”

“Upriver. Only those to be sacrificed are allowed entrance.”

Kold did his best to wipe the spreading rust from his blades. “I think we are going to the same place. Come with me, maybe I can sort this out.” Turning, he gave a grim face and put a scarred finger to his lips, “But you stay quiet if I say so.”

She nodded, following close as he stalked through the tree line beside the river.

That night, they took shelter in a dense copse of trees. Kold didn’t dare light a fire to even dissuade the biting insects, so they held to each other beneath his cloak as rains like the tears of a weeping goddess pelted them. And for a night, they forgot the rest of the world around them.

By mid-afternoon the trail lifted as the river cut a deep canyon into the jungle floor. Kold knew they were nearing the temple complex where the monkeys had stoned him and his men. Alert and suspicious, he crept silently along the trail, prepared for the worst. Vashti was always beside him, hushed as ever. Her dark eyes scanning for sign as capable as his own.

He sensed she did these things only to please him, not because she was concerned or worried about the pygmies. The Bhustani people’s myriad gods and conception of karma annoyed him. In his way of thinking, death was only a question of fractions, a slice of a second or inches, not a universal harmony or casting of the die. People died because he killed them, not because it was ‘their time’. This job was like so many others, except this time a supposed deity would fall under his knife. This time it was for a greater good, a monkey god would die to save thousands of his countrymen’s lives. Never before had the stakes been so high, the chance for failure so real.

The caress of her hand across his cheek shook him awake. They had reached the borders of the temple grounds with a few scant hours of daylight left.

There were no signs of sentient life apparent. From this angle it seemed the jungle had reclaimed more than Kold perceived earlier. Every structure was covered in vines and strangling greenery.

“Which is the temple of Mahmackrah?” he asked.

Vashti looked over the crumbling vine-choked ruin and pointed at the largest structure. “It would be that central peak.”

“Does anyone live here? Will there be any guards?”

She shook her head and spoke with authority. “None besides the children of Mahmackrah. I am to be left at the gates for him. Now you must do the same for me,” she ordered. “I answer your thoughts. What we shared is all there is, nothing more exists.”

Kold suddenly doubted she was just a peasant girl to have such a tone. “Vashti, I didn’t save you from the pygs just to feed you to some damn dirty ape.”

“For yourself then?”

He grinned at the truth of it.

She slapped him across the face with just enough force to make his grin grow. “You cannot fight my fate, nor steal me from my duty. If I fled from this honor, my people would suffer an apocalypse.”

“Seems one of us is gonna be awful disappointed.”

Vashti frowned, “What do you mean to do? Why are you here?”

“Just to see for myself if this god exists.”

She drew back raising her hands defensively, “You are a man of blood, you seek to do him harm.”

He cursed at that, while she swept a branch at him. Kold ducked and was still met with a stinging thwack to the face. He underestimated her agility.

Opening his eyes, he saw only the swaying bushes left in Vashti’s wake. He ran after her, following the broken and shaking leaves over any actual sight. The thickness of the jungle blended every shade of green. More vines and fronds slapped Kold in the face, but he could hear Vashti’s labored breath, he was gaining on her.

Snatches of daylight teased ahead and then a clearing opened. Vashti was waiting with a large brown ball.

Kold had just enough time to register her weapon of choice as the coconut struck him in the forehead.

He awoke at dusk, the red fleshed sky bruising into deep purple. She had taken nothing from him and he could readily follow her trail into the lush foliage. This time the trail was brief and opened back upon the temple city.

The distant sound of chattering and raucous squawks filled the night sky. Decayed pyramid peaks loomed against the jungle as Kold stole from shadow to shadow, never outlining himself against the fading horizon. Rounding the corner of a slumping mausoleum, he beheld a bizarre scene.

At the cavernous doorway to the pyramid of Mahmackrah, Vashti was bound outstretched between two pillars as dozens of the children of Mahmackrah, the monkeys, cavorted about her. Vashti’s head wilted as if she was only held aloft by the taut ropes.

A trio of the pygmy shamans stood close by, keeping a steady beat upon tiny kettle drums as the old cursing priest was joined by six more carbuncled old men. All of them were chanting to the monkey god for answers, even while the monkeys pelted them and the girl with stones, fruit or filth. They waited for a sign from the monkey god who dwelt within.

And a voice from inside did sound out, but never in any form Kold could understand, just brief shrill grunts and calls, much like the other monkeys outside, though this was deeper and of rich timbre, heavy and ominous.

The priests and shamans continued despite the monkeys light assault.

Kold laughed, they were not getting an answer yet. He moved in closer until he was almost upon the priests. Across the ravine he could see many torches. The pygmies or possibly even other Bhustanis waited for word from the god. But they would not enter the sacred city. His luck held for the moment. At least, there would be few enough enemies for him to contend with.

Chortling and grunts echoed from inside the temple, and Kold had to wonder at what the creature was and how large it might be. He looked for any other weapons he might be able to use beyond his remaining daggers, but the priests had nothing he could steal but a small hammer left aside, presumably from rebuilding the bridge. Guessing it could be a useful weapon if thrown, he slid the stout handle through his belt.

Using a cautious approach, Kold crept up behind the chanting men.

One priest, the farthest one back, turned to look at the dagger man, his eyes growing wide before the daggers fell. The chanting men and throbbing drums could hardly be heard above the cries of the monkeys, and Vashti still never looked up.

Kold dragged the thin dead man into the gloom where he wouldn’t immediately be seen.

Monkeys chattered and taunted as the priests cried aloud waving their swirling torches. Brief notes of sound came from the temple, but still nothing that sounded like legible words, just deep animalistic dirges.

Kold circled back through the darkness to the rear of the holy edifice, sure enough there was another entrance inviting blackness amid the sonic bombardment of the monkeys cackling.

Daggers drawn, one underhand and the other overhand, Kold entered the midnight temple. He glimpsed furtive shadows dancing all over the ornately carved walls, across the voluptuous bosoms of multi-limbed statutes of the many Bhustani gods. The stench inside was almost unbearable and he was aware that where once had been a polished marble floor was now soft loam from a hundred years of composting dung and debris.

Firelight from the priests torches crept in weaker that the sound of their chants and drums. Kold was sure they could not see him inside, ready to kill their god…if he even existed.

A screeching body flung itself upon him.

Kold slashed the thing to ribbons before realizing it was just a bold monkey, incapable of granting the deep calls that echoed above him from a hundred directions. He pondered the temples acoustics and charged at a strong low note.

It issued from a rectangular vent. Squinting in the darkness, Kold saw it was a hollow tube flowing from a second level tier in the temple. But he could not see stairs leading up yet. But things were not as they seemed.

Kold’s eye caught movement at the gaping temple doorway.

A figure borne of unholy night stalked from out of the shadows. For a moment it looked as if the writhing jungle had come alive, so shaggy and amorphous was the great ape. Oversized fangs jutted from its mouth and its pallid eyes glared a primeval hate.

Of course this was the monkey god, a beast standing tall as a man on horseback and weighing perhaps as much as rider and beast. Never had Kold seen such a formidable animal save the short-faced bears of the north, and this creature, he knew would be much more clever.

The huge ape roared its challenge and stalked several paces closer.

Kold backed up against the wall where he could not be attacked from behind. Despite the creature’s formidable size and strength, he had to trust to his weapons and skill. If the thing charged him he would bury his daggers in its heart and rip them out.

But the ape would have none of it. It grasped a broken head from a statue, large as Kold’s own body and it flung the boulder at the assassin.

Dodging low and right, Kold felt the smashed fragments rain across his back. He rolled to gain his footing but the brute was already there and picked him up by his left leg. It gazed at him upside down and roared again.

Slashing hard and fast as he could, Kold’s reach still lacked, he cut only the air.

Guessing the monster may have some of the same weakness as men, Kold kicked with his free right leg as hard as he could at the things nose. His squared boot tip smashed in, while teeth went down the creature’s gullet from the facial impact.

Dropped on his head, Kold dodged again just as the enormous foot slammed down. He struck with the dagger hoping to draw blood on anything he could. The blade bit across the ankle. The ape howled, kicking the dagger out of Kold’s hand.

Drawing the hammer, Kold launched himself at the giant ape.

Stumbling back, the monster held up its massive swinging arms and knocked Kold against the ground. It then leapt upon him, knocking the breath from his lungs. Crouching down, the ape’s slavering mouth retched open and screamed hot fetid breath on Kold.

His hammer hand pinned, Kold stabbed up with the dagger and buried it in the thick meaty muscle of the ape’s thigh.

It screamed and brought down titanic fists on Kold’s face, but still the man twisted the knife and the beast retreated to a far corner.

Kold sputtered and wiped blood from his own broken nose, unwilling tears ran from bruised eyes and he prepared for another attack.

None came.

Through bleary eyes, Kold watched the beast writhing and crying in the corner, clutching its thigh. He had cut the vital artery in its leg and the god was bleeding out incredibly fast.

It bawled once more, slumped and went silent.

Approaching on unsteady legs, Kold held his dagger and hammer at the ready.

Pale ape eyes followed him.

The blade opened the throat and there could be no doubt it was dead.

Then Kold could hear his own ragged breath and the shrill monkeys surrounding him in the dark. The priests outside still chanted and drummed, unaware.

The deep voice of the monkey god still reverberated throughout the temple.

Kold laughed. He hadn’t slain the monkey god after all, just a great beast. The monkey god was the voice echoing through pipes and horns lined about the walls. Here and there as a monkey chattered near an ancient mouthpiece, the sound was amplified and deepened.

The priests cast whatever answer they wanted from the booming sounds. Tradition held the Bhustani people in thrall and Kold knew how he would cripple them.

Taking the hammer in hand he smashed the dirging stone instruments again and again. Cracked frescoes and statues all felt his blows as he crumbled the work of ages.

The priests went silent from their chanting as they realized the monkey god’s voice was lessening every moment.

Kold counted ninety nine sounding tubes, as he called them, all embedded along the decadent frescoed walls in the temple. He destroyed them all.

Stepping to the open gateway, he called for Vashti, but she did not respond. Kicking a monkey out of his way, Kold pressed his way to the limp girl.

Bound between the pillars, she did not move.

Ignoring the shouting priests, Kold felt for a pulse.

A flame of bitter hatred flared then. Kold swore to never feel such emotions again. Casting his gaze at the screaming dead men, he charged and swiftly cut them down.

Before they were all slain, they did raise the alarm for their brethren across the bridge, who ran at breakneck speed across.

Kold thought to cut the bridge as he had before, but knew he could not reach it in time. He faded back into the jungle. He would make his way back to the dugout he had hidden and float his way back to civilization.

The Bhustanis brought more priests forward who could interpret the commands of the monkey god, but it never spoke again. Thus both the god and war that Kold sought to slay, died.

David J. West was born with an innate love of books and weapons, pursuing a career writing speculative fiction had to follow. His published and forthcoming works include-controversial historicals: Heroes of the Fallen, Blood of Our Fathers weird westerns-Fangs of the Dragon, Dance the Ghost (With Me) shadowy terrors-The Dig, Curse the Child, and heroic dark fantasy-Midnight Sons, The Hand of Fate. His story "Hel' Awaits" appeared in the March issue of Swords & Socercery. He collects truths, swords, the finest art he can afford, and has a library of 6,000 + volumes because he likes the smell of old books. You can visit him at http://david-j-west.blogspot.com.

The Feast of Vincent and Agnes brightened the halls of King Hector’s court in the usual fashion. Light hearts sat at heavy tables, peerless champions strong in the fight came together in peace, and the king handed out boons with his own hand to all who entered. Into that court came a stranger whose grave features and ready hands could not be mistaken as belonging to a common man, but only to death-dealing knight or fearsome lord.

He crossed the court without turning left or right and kneeled before the king. “I, Gregory of Northlee, ask a boon of King Hector, paramount ruler.”

“You shall have it,” uttered the king. “Only name the boon, good Gregory of Northlee.”

“I desire a bag of star seeds,” the stranger said, causing gasps and wondering looks through the court.

“Bring it forth,” commanded the open-handed king. “Noble Gregory, I grant you this boon freely. However, know it is a grave boon. I hope you return to this court someday to tell us what you did, though I do not demand it.”

“That I will do.” Gregory took the marvelous bag in both hands and left the hall.

Mountains marched to the north while forests marched south, and between them was the entrance to the clear-skied land of Northlee. Gregory secured his horse’s barding, girded himself with death-blunting armor, and took up his man-slaying arms before riding forward to the gap, where a fortress of looming stone shadowed the road.

The country between the trees and peaks was not wide, but there were cleared fields for the aid of the fortress. As Gregory passed, men and women there left off working and hurried up to him, worry in their eyes.

“My lord, for such you must be, turn aside! No one may cross into Northlee without leave from King Harold, which you must not have if you come armed as you are. Yet if you hope to win through by force, abandon such folly. Lord Wulfred guards this pass in the king’s name. He is hardier than the fortress he commands, sterner than the stones piled on one another, and has star-forged armor and a like sword given by King Harold himself along with this charge.”

“I know it,” spoke Gregory, “for I passed this way before. Even so, I must return. King Harold would never suffer my passing, Lord Wulfred’s arm is heavy, and I have lost before. Nevertheless, I must take this to the end.” He patted a bag tied to his horse, and none knew what it meant.

Gregory spurred his horse straight for the fortress gates. Reaching them, he waited for what must come. The gates rose, no longer barring the view of a rider whose massive steed, stamping the ground and snorting with impatient war-lust, was alone among horses fit to bear him. His armor was silver and radiated unearthly light. On his shield was a bear with blood-soaked fur.

“Leave, traveler,” Lord Wulfred commanded in a voice that carried across the fields. “Unless you have permission from King Harold, you may not pass into Northlee. I would not kill one who is not yet a criminal in this land. If you have deserved death elsewhere, seek it there.”

“I am a felon here, an exile. To return is death, but there are wrongs done in this land since then, and I must return.” Gregory banged his spear against his shield, calling for the clash of arms.

Two horses charged, and two shields turned to ward off death-dealing spears. The heroes circled each other, striking across their bodies and blocking everything. No thunderstorm ever crashed louder than their resounding blows, yet no flesh opened with red wounds.

The hard combat failed to weaken the lord of the pass. At last Wulfred drew back his powerful arm and thrust his spear straight at Gregory’s shield, and nothing could resist him. The shield cracked as Wulfred’s own spear splintered. “And next your life!” he roared as he drew his sword, his silver sword which split even the sun’s holy light.

Gregory backed his mount away to give his long spear space in which to play, but his foe charged to deny it. Even after he struck Wulfred’s elbow with his steel-tipped spear, the sword shrieked through the air. He leaned back and avoided death, but the sword swung down through his loyal horse’s flesh and took that beast’s life with one blow.

“Ah, after bearing me so far!” Gregory cried. He won free of the faithful corpse and, spear thrown aside, readied his metal-crushing mace.

“A pity, as all life is,” Lord Wulfred said. He dismounted and beat his sword against his shield to signal the two-footed battle.

Gregory was wary of his enemy’s great limbs, terrible blade, and dauntless courage, but there was no way forward but victory. He waited for the silver sword to rise again then rushed forward for the clinch. His mace did what it could, blow after blow, but Wulfred was stout. The foe dropped his shield and shoved away Gregory, who kept his footing firm and his right arm free. His mace made one firm swing before the sword could answer, smashing into the fortress-ruling champion’s helmet. The sword fell from stiff fingers.

Laid out on the ground, Lord Wulfred gasped out his last words. “You have killed me, but with your arms you cannot kill the king. Take my blade if you think it right. Take also my horse to bear you across the country, but I warn you: He will not carry you in battle. Only I could master him.”

“I will heed your words,” Gregory said. He waited till stubborn life drained from his foe, that hard-handed hero, before closing the man’s eyes, taking his sword, and mounting his horse.

Gregory rode east through Northlee until the road turned north to King Harold’s court. At the road’s bend there was a fortress hanging over the ocean, for that was where the land ended. He passed by without secrecy, and a man rode toward him from the fortress. Gregory halted Lord Wulfred’s horse and dismounted in wait.

The man approached and jumped off his horse as nimbly as an acrobat. His armor was made of chain that repulsed the sun with its own light. His shield glowed too, and no device adorned its surface. He addressed Gregory. “Halt! If you are the intruder who overcame Lord Wulfred, say so. If you are someone else, tell me who you are.”

“I am the intruder,” Gregory said. “You know me, but who are you?”

The man, with strange emphases and slurring, responded. “I have heard you must be some lord, so I did not venture to say much. Since you asked, I will tell you.

“I am Jans, captain of a sailing ship from across the ocean. That ship sailed far and wide, finding novelties and wonders all over. There are dangers in the sea, but my ship was well-built, my crew was expert, and fortune favored us.

“That was until the Great Boar disappeared from the sky. Without that constellation, we drifted without guidance on the open sea until we sighted a sky-skewering tower and made for it. You must know it was King Harold who built that tower so high he was able to reach up and seize the stars. Any lost ships which came near his shores were boarded by his pitiless reavers.

“We were no different. His ships boarded us to take all we had. We fought hard against them, but sometimes I wish we had not. They beat us and chained us and dragged us to the king, who told me he would have my canny arm obey his orders. If not, he would kill my men. What could I do?

“He gave me these star-forged arms (since a poor sailor’s panoply is nothing impressive), a horse I can barely ride, and this fortress. Now he has ordered me to kill the lord who forced his way into Northlee. If your lordship has no more questions, prepare for the blood-drenched struggle I am bound to fight.”

Gregory unhooked his bone-breaking mace and stood ready, unwilling to advance without a shield. His foe, however, proved no more eager to close, so Gregory took the lead. He stepped forward and swung, but the seaman hopped back. Again he swung, and again his foe dodged.

Jans was nimble, but Gregory was confident in his wind and strength. The lord pressed the captain hard, trying to push him against the cliff to force a close contest, but it was no use. Blow after blow met neither flesh nor armor as the sun passed overhead, and swing after swing had no result while the shadows lengthened.

Gregory’s chest heaved, his arms burned, as he chased the seaman, who gave no sign of flagging. He kept swinging, knowing his wind was near its end, when a shock ran through his body. The mace hit more than air; Jans had lifted his shield. The shield fell from numb fingers while the mace broke into pieces, and the battle changed. Gregory drew Wulfred’s sky-ruling sword and rained down blows like a tempest on the sailor, whose once-spry legs could no longer dodge. Jans returned blow for blow, and deafening clangs filled the air.

More wind was in Gregory, and more strength, and doom. His blade slashed with fury Jans could not match, and the sword opened the foe’s belly. The combat over, Gregory stepped back.

Captain Jans looked down at his seeping guts and said, “But who will save my men?” He dropped his arms and fell to his knees. “I enjoin you: Take my shield, ride to Boarspear Tower, and do for King Hector as you have done for me.”

Gregory nodded. “I will do what you ask, for it is the king who is wrong.” He reached out his arms to guide the light-limbed champion to a posture fitter for a man to breathe out his life. Gregory, silver shield on arm, went on.

He rode up the coast past lordly lands, not turning to the left. His county was no longer his, but his dreadful hands and awful intent were left to him.

Boarspear Tower rose high and drew all eyes to it from far away. He rode daylong, and the lengthening nights saw him ride through them as well. At last he reached the base of the cloud-shaming tower and found at its base a solemn lord whose shield bore two gore-clawed lions guarding a palace. The sun was bright and illuminated all but the champion’s armor, which was of a silver far above gold.

“You should not be here,” Lord Steward Malcolm declared in dark tones some use in lamentation, others in threat. “Harold is king after his uncle. The lords who fought him are dead or exiled. You were exiled, so it is death to return.”

“I know it. It was wrong to fight him then, and it is wrong to return now. What he has done though is far worse. That is why I go against him.”

“What you say is true, but do not think to win entry. My duty, my skill, and my strength stand in your way.”

There was nothing left for words to do, and Gregory unsheathed Wulfred’s unearthly sword. Malcolm drew his sword, which was of the same temper, and raised his wooden shield against the silver-coated bulwark that guarded Captain Jans until fate came upon him.

Gregory’s attack was fierce, and if the steward blocked his blows it was just as well, for he meant to break that shield. All the steward’s blade-turning skill was used in vain as slivers and chunks broke from the guarding wood and fell to the ground. Gregory had his way, forcing his foe to cast away his shield.

“And yet I fight on,” the lord steward spoke. He punched with his emptied left hand, his bone-grinding might stunning Gregory. A step forward and Malcolm grappled the exile; his hand was heavy and his grip was strong. Shoving, twisting, and turning did nothing but delay the steward’s life-stealing stroke.

Gregory knew his strength was less. Soon his foe would squeeze the wind and life from his lungs, grab his head and strike through his neck, or wrestle him to the ground and let him bleed out his last onto the hard ground through sword-struck wounds. He gave up width and strength to the steward but not height. Rearing back, he struck with his well-helmed head. There was a crack and a crunch and two rattled heroes, but Gregory’s pain was less. He gave another head-butt and won free of the iron-handed steward’s grip. The silver sword was not to be stopped by the dazed and shield-shorn champion, and blood flowed from the mortal gash.

“I have many, for I have killed good men,” Gregory’s quiet voice said. “Yet I must go on.”

“That is only right.” The steward said that and nothing more. Gregory crossed the high-minded hero’s arms, closed his eyes, and entered the tower.

Inside the tower was a spiral staircase which wound around a central column. It was the only way up, so Gregory climbed it. Up floors and floors he went, meeting no servant, knight, or lord. He climbed amid silence at first till the sounds of birds waxed. He climbed amid calls and caws till the sounds of birds waned.

The tower walls gave way to clear sky, and Gregory saw the clouds below in the fading light. Even so the stairs continued around a sky-piercing spire. He climbed yet higher to the country of the stars. At last he reached the summit, and there at the tower’s crown was a king.

Not broad but tall, not dour but fearsome was King Harold. The rays of the stars joined the light of his arms, whose radiance filled a gap in the sky.

“To think I spared your life,” the king mused. “Is there a reward for mercy, or is it a virtue because it is hard and thankless?”

“Yes, you spared me when killing me was your right, but you have killed many you ought never to have fought. You even plundered the starry plains of the sky, which should not be,” Gregory said.

“Why not? Don’t answer. I see you are here with a purpose; let that suffice.”

The two paramount champions drew their star-forged swords and engaged each other in equal combat. For every blow Gregory’s sword made, Harold’s shield came up, while Gregory’s shield turned aside death each time Harold’s sword swung. No sea ever raged against the rocky cliffs to less effect, nor did two stags crash antler against antler with such evenness.

A hundred strokes passed between them, and Gregory knew the end was near. His body burned, his wind was short, and his shoulders could not long bear the weight. There was no space on that pillar’s peak to withdraw, only enough to kill and die. He cast his shield aside to rain down blows with two hands upon his enemy. King Harold blocked as he could while striking Gregory’s body, but even the silver-coated shield cracked under those fell-handed strokes. It cracked and splintered and fell apart, and there was nothing to stop the blade. Gregory’s strength was seeping from his body through king-given wounds, but there was enough left for the work. He raised his star-forged sword and brought it down through the king’s shoulder, down into the chest.

“After all that,” King Harold croaked as his end came upon him.

Gregory said nothing, for there was only one task left to him. He drew forth the bag, grabbed what was in it, and hurled upward with all his might. The seeds flew high, and there in the sky the Great Boar began to shine again.

The Feast of the Long Night was observed at King Hector’s court with the ancient usages. A choir filled the halls with solemn lays while lords and ladies mourned the lost. Great-hearted King Hector himself ate bread and drank water as he recalled and grieved.

In a pause between one dirge and another, a figure appeared in the court which struck everyone with chill. Its legs once guided raging warhorses, its broad shoulders once wore wound-shunning armor, and its hands once gripped swords and maces. It approached the king and kneeled before him.

The king groaned and said, “Miserable youth to have left this life so soon, who are you? Is there something you would ask of me?”

The figure raised its pale head and spoke. “I was Gregory of Northlee. Blessed king, you gave me a boon when I asked, and now I am here to tell you what I worked with it. This is the story…”

I apologize for being late with this month’s edition of Swords & Sorcery Magazine. I waited until after the beginning of the month to begin the process of putting the issue together in hopes of getting some more story submissions to choose from but I have received few stories over the summer. Fortunately there were two stories that I did have available that were up to my standards. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

“The Boon of Gregory of Northlee” by Andrew Moore is a tale of chivalry and self-sacrifice ranged against dark magic. Mr. Moore is new to Swords & Sorcery.

“The Ninety-Nine Deaths of the Monkey God” by David J. West is the story of a mercenary on a mission to disrupt an evil cult pressing for war. Mr. West’s story “Hel Awaits” appeared in the March issue of Swords & Sorcery.

As always your comments and questions are welcome. They can be emailed to editor@swordsandsorcerymagazine.com or find us on Facebook. In addition to submissions of original fiction Swords & Sorcery is always interested in reviews of genre stories, novels, graphic novels and movies.

Editor

Curtis Ellett is a frustrated fantasy writer and a founding member of the 196 Southshore Writers' Group. He has lived on three continents, studied archaeology and worked as a newspaper ad designer and a bookseller. He now gets paid to write. Find him on Twitter @CurtisEllett.